Read No Cry For Help for Free Online

to the burst radiator hiss and the strained engine tick as it cooled. Above the mechanical sounds, a cacophony croaked from a puddle of angry frogs.
    He breathed deeply. He was a better driver than that. What the hell was he thinking?
    The answer was simple: he wasn’t thinking, he was reacting. Blindly. Stubbornly.
    He contorted his body again and attacked the belt mechanism with both hands.
    This time the lock snapped open and Wallace fell, his body twisting uncontrollably as gravity took hold. His feet flew skyward, his bad leg smashing painfully into the steering column while his arms vanished through the shattered opening of the passenger window to sink into the murky, foul-smelling ditch beneath.
    He panicked as his head and shoulders quickly followed. Grimy brown water filled his mouth as he thrashed around to find a purchase on something solid. His hands slipped across sunken roots and submerged grass while his fingers sunk into deep loose clay and his lungs began to burn. He flailed his feet, but that only pushed him deeper into the suffocating murk.
    Desperate, he realized it was impossible to fight his way back into the van. Instead, Wallace twisted onto his back, grabbed hold of the broken side mirror and yanked himself forward. His body slid barely two feet, his shoulders and back squelching into a layer of thick clay. The weight and angle of the van seemed to push him deeper into the dank and he suddenly wondered if he had just made his perilous situation even worse.
    He scrambled to grasp the slippery hood, but his fingers failed to find a grip. Blind and frantic, his lungs on the verge of collapse, he tucked in his knees and felt his feet hit the edge of the broken window.
    This was it. Last chance.
    He braced his feet against the window edge, wincing slightly at a sharp pain in his left leg, and pushed with all his might. A loud, internalized sucking noise filled his ears as his shoulders fought against the vacuum of mud —
    His mouth opened in a silent scream as the vacuum popped and he was suddenly launched like a loosed torpedo.
    Scrambling, desperate, he squeezed around the van’s front bumper and clawed his way skyward.
     
     
    HIS HEAD broke the surface just as his lungs gave out. He gulped in air and spat out slime, cursing his own damn stupidity.
    After crawling out of the ditch, Wallace slopped off as much of the mud and rotting vegetation as he could. He looked like hell, but didn’t care. That was the least of his worries.
    He started walking, his limp more pronounced but the pain manageable.
    He needed to find a phone.

 
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 8
     
     
    Crow answered on the first ring. Sleep had proved impossible. His thoughts too troubling. His answers too few. If he still drank, it would have been a bad, bad night. When the phone rang, he silently thanked his ancestors for helping him stay strong.
    On the other end of the line, Wallace said, “I need your help.”
    Crow sighed with relief at the sound of his friend’s voice.
    “Where are you? What’s happening? Is everyone OK?”
    “It’s a mess. Can you pick me up?”
    “Yeah, of course. Are Alicia and the boys with you?”
    Crow heard the catch in his friend’s throat.
    “I can’t talk on the phone.”
    “Hang tight,” said Crow. “I’ll be right there.”
    Wallace gave him the address.
    Crow’s clothes were in a heap on the floor beside the bed. All he had to do was step in and zip up.
    Delilah didn’t stir.
     
     
    TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES later, Crow pulled into a 24-hour gas station in Surrey and spotted Wallace sitting on a plastic bench out front.
    He was alone and he had spoken true. He was a mess. His clothes were ripped and soiled with a mixture of mud and blood from numerous shallow cuts and scrapes.
    Wallace limped over to the truck and climbed inside. His shoes squelched and his eyes revealed a roadmap of sorrow and pain. He had a difficult time meeting Crow’s questioning stare and Crow felt his heart